Nov 11, 2013

The Cold Truth

Her winter days rue to cover brighter fusions.
She threw rugs over narcissistic ears.
Her thick essence not to murmur a strong language.
For gentle souls languid in jejune Autumn.
She is exhausted before it is reached;
as she go it alone, battling her need for space
entrapped within a prism mind. Yet, there is
weariness in thine eyes. She wipes the fog
from the inside out. Who would notice her day
under a snowy  roof top? Where spirits wrestle to death...
There is rage in cold. There is sanctum where it resides.

But the forgiving season keeps track of memories like the
birds flying south. Her true love seems divided as the
awakening sunset. Still, she gives frost bitten bud's one
last chance to finish until dusk takes her soft cheeks.
And so she lives for a bitter cruel journey as the clouds
cry an oasis white. Color begins to disappear, the yellow
light burns blue on a breezy porch. Only a long goodnight,
that she must transition as woven wool. She must not be
afraid to touch the silent days of a still heart.  For one day
her butterflies shall dance every night inside her wild
imagination. It shall keep her able to feel the cold when the fire
burns out.

jhp ©2011-2012

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